Gerrit Kouwenaar Translated by David Colmer

The day before the armistice our almighty father-​major sent me and six others out into the deadof night to the enemy who was as goodas defeated

seven scouts on the borderof almost everything: war flesh life, walkingthrough fog into an ambush: I alonespared as if by miracle

they were buried on the spotamong them my inseparable matefrom four years’ trenches

six months later, spring by then, I was studyinghuman biology in the city, drinking ale, scoffingsteaks ladies, his father cameand said: you are still alive, youwere his mate, youknow where he is buried, so help medig him up, against the law of course, but he belongs at home with us, in the garden

well, what else could I do, I did it, I dughim up with his father, worked him outfrom his tag, he wasfalling apart, a soft lukewarm mass, my handshot wrist-deep into his body, shockedby the substance giving wayto an outrageous hole

after the funeral, illicit in his own earth, I satin their living room with mother father sister, sippinga shot of tears, talkingaround the portrait of him as a boy

I said: we were walking together hunched over, speakingin hushed voices of better and later, smokinga shared belga, neither of us scentingdanger / he wasa brave soldier, dutifulbut not without dignity, he lovedmozart wagner his country, listenedwhen the trees rustled / I did notdeviate too far from the truth of him, omittingonly the unsayable the lice the whores and howwe went at it like butchers

ah, it was spring, in the gardenwhere we had buried him the plane treerustled, the tree that grows hands, there wasa sense of something complete, somethingfinally finished, the moon tooseemed new, and his fleshly sister hungon my lips, late april and trappedin a cramped body, the red currantstank of the earth, and my hand touchedher breasts, my hand

touched her breasts and it wasthe same soft lukewarm mass, the samesoft lukewarm mass, the same substance butthe same, and it wasthis same hand, this

never have I

Never have I striven for anything other than this:making stone softmaking fire from watermaking rain from thirst

meanwhile the cold was bitingthe sun was a day full of waspsthe bread was sweet or saltyand the night as black as it by rights should beor white with ignorance

sometimes I confused myself with my shadowjust as one can confuse the word with the wordthe carcass with the bodyoften day and night were of the same colourand tearless, and deaf

but never anything other than this:making stone softmaking fire from watermaking rain from thirst

it is raining I drink I am thirsty.

​

Gerrit Kouwenaar (1923-2014) first published in underground newspapers during the German occupation and came to prominence as one of the Vijftigers (the ‘Fifties Poets’, an experimental Dutch and Flemish literary movement of the 1950s, related to Cobra). His initially personal and social poetry developed towards abstraction and hermeticism, before becoming more clearly autobiographical again later in his life. His work has been translated into many languages.

World’s first major ecopoetry award. With a first prize of £5,000 for the best single poem embracing ecological themes, the award ranks amongst the highest of any English language single poem competition. Second prize is £2,000 and third prize £1,000.